


The Watchman's Gone

by Dominion_of_Dust1886



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Can I get a yeehaw?, Can't spell O'driscoll to save my life, Except Kieran, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I'm all about them cowboys, Let them be Arthur Morgan if they wish, Mama don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys, Multi, Red Dead Redemption 2 Spoilers, Red Dead Redemption Spoilers, Slow Burn, Them O'driscoll gang can die, Western, yeehaw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 16:40:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16622567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dominion_of_Dust1886/pseuds/Dominion_of_Dust1886
Summary: Spoilers for Chapter 3 and beyond...When Arthur Morgan escaped the O'Driscoll's during the fake parlay, he expected to die if he didn't make it back to camp. He instead was found by his own guardian angel.Constance Albright was a well educated spinster woman from out east. She knew medicine and had no desire for romance; she wasn't expecting the right hand of the Van der Linde Gang needing her help.





	1. Prologue

_Clopclop...clopclop_  
Arthur Morgan grit his teeth, hand reaching towards the seeping bullet hole in his shoulder. It was hard to focus on the trodden dirt road leading back to camp.  
He was cold, in his skivvies, mind, and full night had settled on the plains. It didn't help either that his vision was still blurry from the rifle butt against his temple when the O'Driscoll's snagged him.  
"Damnit," he groaned, sagging further into his saddle, "get me home, girl."  
The horse, a deep chestnut brown Shire nickered, throwing her head as she set a slow walk.  
_A trap. A trap, of course it was a trap,_ Arthur's mind reeled. That was the only focus he had aside from the pain.  
He knew sepsis was working itself in him, but the stubborn man held tight to the saddlehorn. Get back to camp, tell Dutch he was duped and Micah to shove off. The bastard wasn't worth his two cents.   
His vision blurred further as Arthur succumbed to his injuries. He didn't even notice he fell off the saddle.


	2. Discovery

"Thank you once again for your help, Miss Albright."  
Constance Albright, a spinster of only 31 nodded to the farmer, "it's not a problem what so ever, Mr. Fellows." She pointed at his bandaged arm, "just keep that cut clean and change it twice a day. I'll check back in a few days."  
Farmer Fellows grasped his hat, "lucky you was here. No other doctor from Rhodes don't come this way much. How is it that you don't work there?"  
Constance paused while patting her horse. The elderly farmer hadn't noticed?  
She took her time replacing her hat atop her deep red hair, wondering if he was pulling her leg. Men could be rough on a woman here.  
Still, she responded, "it's because I'm a woman, Mr. Fellows. No one will visit a woman doctor unless she's a midwife."  
He put a pipe to his lips, "well. Them there lot is full of shit then."  
Constance chuckled, swinging her leg into her saddle before prodding her grey horse into a trot and down the farmer's road.  
Hard to believe she had traveled all this way, her own father a doctor in Saint Denis before succumbing to tuberculosis ten years ago. She hadn't had to worry about finding lodgings, as an obscure aunt had a plantation nearby.  
However, that was the only luck she had since.  
Aunt Maisy, a distant aunt from her mother's side whom she only met almost a decade ago, hadn't room for her in the main house. She instead giving her a run down porters house on the edge of her land. One way to separate their familiar ties while keeping Constance in her sights.  
While she could look at this as a setback, Constance had a knack for fixing (an unheard of thing for a woman) and decided to fix said home with help from some of the former slaves she befriended. Most of the updates were unused and unwanted to other people, she had no other choice. A coat of paint had been more than the typical lifesaving procedure to her. It felt more like home.   
Though the former slaves left some years later, Constance sent what little money to them as a thank you. Post sent to her sometimes consisted of baked goods or pieces of clothing to keep her away from her harpy of an aunt. Otherwise she worked for mere change at house upkeep.  
Word had gone around for some of the poorer farm folks of her knowledge of medicine. She had become used to being roused from sleep to bind a broken leg to helping a struggling new mother with child.  
She could head east, but what was the point?  
Constance turned her horse left, where she saw a fellow rider ahead of her. A big Shire mare, one suitable for cart pulling and her rider whom also was on the bigger side. They kept a slow pace to which she caught up fairly early.  
Ettiquite had her speaking, "evening, sir."  
The man said nothing, head slumped and shoulders hunched. Constance noted he was only in his undergarments.  
_Drunk_ , she thought next, meaning to pass.  
Then he tipped off his saddle and into the road.  
"Sir?" Constance slowed before slipping out of her saddle, "are you okay?"  
The lantern she held shown its yellow glow over the man, to which she could smell the tell tale signs of blood spilt. She knelt down, hand going to his shoulder and coming away sticky.  
"God. Can you hear me?"  
No response.  
The woman huffed, standing up again to grab the chestnut's reins. The mare nickered, bumping its nose to Constance's shoulder.  
"Shh girl. You gonna help me with your man. He looks like a heavy brute."  
Constance made use of the short wagon left abandoned near the junction of the road behind her. With a bit of her strength, she tugged the man by his legs onto the makeshift stretcher. He groaned, trying to fight her off.  
"Pipe down, I'm almost done."  
She then rigged his draft horse to the wagon and they set a slow walk to her home three miles away.


	3. The Bullet

The cottage Constance Albright lived in was well taken care of. From the outside, ivy covered nearly three quarters of the painted blue boards. The only home she had and it was hers.  
Constance stopped the wagon at the porch step, relinquishing the mare her load. The young woman pulled the man's arm over her shoulder, making their way to the door. She kicked it open while struggling with his weight.The faint flicker of firelight from the stone fireplace her only illumination as she manhandled him across her shoulder. He seemed to have gained a scant bit of conciousness as his feet found purchase on the wooden boards.  
"That's it," she grunted against him, "a little bit further."  
They twisted in sideways through the door as she deposited him onto her mattress just on the other side of the door. His voice grated out, sharply inhaling in pain.  
Constance deposited her hat on the awaiting peg on the door, hand settling atop his good shoulder.  
"Sir? Shh, your alright," she brushed a few golden strands of hair away from his face.  
And what a handsome angular face she encountered. At least a few days of stubble graced his jaw, enhancing his rugged appearance.  
Constance shook her head, "sir-"  
"Arthur," he ground out, blue eyes fluttering, "Morgan."  
She smiled softly, "okay. Mr. Morgan. I'm Constance Albright. Stay still. I'm gonna get you fixed."  
She had the sense to bring in her father's doctor instruments from her wardrobe, digging through the bag for pliers, cotton wads, moonshine, a bottle of morphine and bandages.  
Constance settled into her routine; stoke the fire, get the kettle warm, light candles and lanterns. Her father's words a lesson, his actions the practice made real. In no way did he think of her as a bother when she was his assistant.  
Martin Albright taught her how to use these practices to help.  
Once the kettle of water was boiling, she poured a bit into a pail, dropping a couple of rags in to soak.  
She quickly retrieved one and wrung it out, eyeing Mr. Morgan, "I need to clean all this blood off you. See what I'm up against."  
If he heard, Mr. Morgan made no indication. She waited, watching his chest rise and fall before cutting his ruined undershirt away from the wound.  
It was a mess; blackened skin, faint scent of gunpowder and sour sweat wafting into her nose.  
It was tough, foul work. The blood clung to Arthur's skin, tougher than tar. The wound ragged and seeped fresh blood when she got close to it's edge. Yellow pus leaked out from deep inside, the hold of infection had its grip on him. He groaned, sweat forming on his brow.  
Constance dropped the ruined rag for another, collecting more water and dribbled it into the hole, cleaning out the vileness. It caused her charge to buck weakly and frown deeper in his unrest.  
"That's it. Got you clean, Mr. Morgan," she handled the pliers and splashed some moonshine over the metal. "I'm gonna have to remove that bullet. Just...lie still."  
She took a bit of cotton to sop up the remaining water, mindful to study how deep the bullet went. Almost to the second knuckle of her finger, from wane light, avoiding bone. She could see the slugs end.  
A steadying breath and she was reaching the pliers into the wound.  
Arthur groaned when the pliers gripped the bullet, arms trying to move Constance's hands off. She instead brushed those paws away, pulling the bullet with a little more force.  
He bucked harder, teeth grit, head thrashing slowly. The bullet seemed to be stuck as Constance pulled, wishing the lead out.  
A particularly hard yank had the offending item free from her charges shoulder, fresh blood and pus flooding the cauterized flesh. She placed more cotton into the wound, refreshing it once it was fully coated in his fluid.  
"I'm almost done," Constance leaned over him, dabing his brow with a clean rag. "This next bit will hurt."  
A moonshine soaked rag was pressed inside the injury and Arthur screamed. It burned into all the areas of broken, burned flesh. His eyes clenched shut, hands gripping the worn blankets he lay upon.  
Constance held firm as she spoke more for her own benefit, "I know! I know, Mr. Morgan. It will help you. Oh, just listen to my voice. Alright? It's alright. You're okay."  
His blue eyes blinked against the pain, the figure above him brushing his hair back, warm hands flush against his heated skin. The burning in his shoulder slowly subsiding as she removed the messed cloth. Arthur sagged in a boneless heap.  
Constance wasted no time, quickly stringing a needle onto some thread and dipping it into the moonshine. Arthur didn't even move while she poked the needle through his skin; steady, even tugs closed the gaping hole.  
"That's it. Almost finished," she tied the end before cutting the remaining thread with her knife, "that should hold. Might have to reopen it if the infection worsens."  
She made quick work on bandaging him up and checking on his vitals.  
The fever remained.


	4. Weather Eye

Clemens Point was quiet, much to John Marston's unease. He tried fishing with Jack, help Pearson with stoking the dinner fire or chopping wood, even offering Kieran his services with the horses.   
_What's taking those three so long?_ He thought, overlooking the calm waters.  
The two longest serving members of the Van der Linde Gang plus Micah had been gone since noon. It was pushing six when he last checked his watch.  
John rubbed the healed scars on his cheek, wondering if the rest of camp could sense what he was feeling. He knew they felt it when he came back after a whole year, that sense of betrayal, the loss of a member of the gang, unsure if he would ever return. The man was observant; raised in an orphanage, but not stupid.  
Neither was Dutch or Arthur.  
John got up from the rock on the riverbank and checked his pocketwatch again. Ten past seven.  
"Damnit," he hissed, stalking towards Old Boy.  
He caught sight of Abigail as she made a beeline towards him. Her hand to his arm made him pause.  
She sidled close, "what's wrong?"  
Jaw clenching, he eyed her, "it's been too long for the meetin'."  
"I know, but John, you can't run off without knowing where they went."  
"Can track 'em."  
"Then what?" She dropped her hand, "those Pinkerton's could be out there right now just waitin'. You know how they work, let 'em sort this out."  
Wait. Always wait. John fucked up when he left for a year now he should WAIT.  
And he did leave them for that year high and dry. A sin that Dutch could have made sure John never came back.  
Arthur held a certain amount of animosity towards him for that stunt and John had a ways to go to regain that trust back. They were the closest in age when John joined the gang; he looked up to Arthur, found him to be a surrogate older brother.  
Arthur _was_ his brother. Didn't matter much for all their bickerin and bitchin about each other when, in the end, they'd probably still keep the bitchin going. That's how it was. Nine years age difference had only mellowed their distain to mild loathing.  
He should have followed them, offered to be an extra eye if things did go south. And if he kept up with what his gut was telling him, well, John's bad feeling was ticking up notches.  
He sighed and stuck a cigarette in his lips. The first puffs of tobacco settled heavily in his lungs.  
"WHO'S THERE?" Charles called from his post in the treeline, making John perk up.  
Dutch, high up on his albino stallion, dropped hastily from its back, Micah close behind. The fading light illuminated their overall state; Micah didn't have his hat while Dutch sported dirty garments. Both looked more than shook.  
Abigail's voice grounded him, dread filling his stomach, "where's Arthur?"  
That was the question, wasn't it?


	5. Fever

_Hurt. Pain._

_His heart clenched tightly._

_Couldn't be true. No!_

_Why? WHY?!?!_

_They were innocent!_

_He fell to his knees. The field awash in crimson, the grass bone dry._

_Two poorly made crosses pierced the earth, the wood already greyed with age._

_The ground was littered with bundles of money. He refused to see them. He knew their exact denomination._

_All equally ten dollars._

-*-

...

...safe"

"Safe...Mor...gan..."

Warm hands. Damp cloth to his forehead. He shivered.   
A cough wracked through him, Arthur clenched his teeth. He hurt everywhere.   
"Shh...easy..."  
A firm hand to his chest. He groaned, head sagging sideways.   


-*-

_The sky pitch black. Storm clouds moving in. Could quench the thirst the dry grass needed._

_A drop fell onto his hand. His eyes latched onto it._

_Red. Red as blood._

_The field wasn't full of dead grass now. No. Bodies littered the field. All the same._

_A woman. A boy._

_"Arthur...Papa..." the wind whispers,_ _"Where are you?"_

 _-_ *-

He was so cold, ache in his bones. Even lifting his eye lids were taxing. Arthur couldn't recall getting sick, save for the one time he and Hosea were in Amarillo and a rattlesnake bit him in the calf. The poison was drawn out, but Arthur was sick for nearly a week afterwards.  
The outlaw managed to tilt his head and open said eyes, his vision still blurred.  
A glittering yellow light, different from his fevered dream, met him. The flicker of candlelight to his left; another from a fireplace further away. He felt it's warmth, but still shivered.  
A shadow moved in front of the firelight, a dip in the mattress, small hands on his cheeks.  
They were so soft, "M...Mary?" He hardly breathed.  
"Shhh," the shadow spoke, "your still far from healthy, Mr. Morgan."  
Not Mary, but the woman's voice was soothing, more melodious than his former lover. She opened the fabric across his chest, pressing a hand near his wounded shoulder and causing Arthur to groan.  
He wished he could see her clearly; surely that voice came from an angel.  
He heard her tut, "you have quite the infection, dear sir."  
A shift, then her returning with a spoon pressed to his lip.  
"Please. You need to eat to keep your strength."  
How long had it been since he ate? Before the parlay, he knew. Just how long ago it was, well, Arthur didn't keep track of his own stomach much.  
Whatever she had in scooped up smelled more delicious than what Pearson ever made. He allowed the warm soup to be fed to him, slowly filling his growling stomach, even though it was a few spoonfuls.  
"That's it," she sounded pleased as Arthur felt a press of a needle to his arm, "a little morphine will help with the pain. Just rest."  
Again her hand went to his forehead, a soothing gesture for an nearly dead man. He knew the pull of the drug was tugging him into oblivion as she still spoke to him softly.  
_Still nice_ , he drifted off.  
-*-

_She was there. Waiting. Smiling. Not a care in the world. Blonde hair bleached nearly white in the Blackwater sunlight, skin tanned, kissed with freckles on her cheeks, her shoulders._

_She was only 17 when they met. He barely twenty._

_They loved fast, hard, needy. They were still children, chasing love like it was only a game, a dream neither wished to leave behind._

_They made love in the long grassy hills of West Elizabeth, a grove of golden currents and raspberries their feast as they had another round._

_He held her close as they came together; breathing promises onto their skin._

_She had some wonderful news. She was pregnant with his child. His, of all things._

_He brought her flowers, Violet Snowdrops, freshly picked from the north. She smiled softly as he held her growing belly._

_A letter informed him she had birthed him a child. A healthy boy. He had his eyes, his chin._

_He held that baby, unsure of himself. She giggled at his insecurity._

_He visited as much as he could, leaving the gang for a few weeks at a time._

_He bought her and their boy a little cabin south of Blackwater overlooking the water. The sun shown and glittered there. So much light._

_She cooked rabbit and deer along with an occasional elk as he taught their son to swim. They would take long rides into Tall Trees, searching for wild Violet Snowdrops, her favorite flower._

_He always dreaded leaving. The boy was growing up so fast. She held back tears as he kissed them away, promising to return soon. One more job. One more big score._

_There wouldn't be._

_Not anymore..._


	6. Tracking

"What happened, Dutch?"  
Molly was the first to broach the subject of the mess, fussing a little too much on the leader of their rag tag troupe. Dutch, for his part, took her fussing in stride as she mothered him to their tent.  
John hung back, keeping to the edge of the gathered group as he eyed Micah. The other man was brushing his moustache slowly, a little shake to his hand.   
_'bout time you got a bit of a shock_ , John glared.  
Jack, the tyke, had run up to him and Abigail, clutching her skirt. "Mama, where's Uncle Arthur?"  
Tilly heard, head swiveling about, "yeah. Where's Arthur, Dutch?"  
The older man sat heavily on his chair, rubbing his neck with a handkerchief.  
"I..." he cleared his throat. "Arthur's...I-I think he was taken." His voice cracked as he spoke.  
The whole camp became a flurry of mixed emotions, shock being prevalent.  
"Taken?" Karen recovered first, "t'hell does that mean?"  
"Means Morgan wasn't where he was when we left him," Micah interjected, "got himself caught. More'n likely by them O'driscoll's."  
"An' you just left him?" Tilly spoke.  
Micah threw his hand up, "was runnin' fer our lives! We was outnumbered!"  
"So your guns don't work?" Lenny provided, pointedly looking at Micah, "them's just decorations?"  
"I'd shut yer mouth if I were you, boah," Micah got into the young man's space, "I ain't against puttin' a bullet in ya right now!"  
"Back it up, you two," Hosea stepped in, a hand between the two. "Thought you had this all covered," he directed to Dutch.  
"Colm has gotten cunning in his age," Dutch said.  
Hosea nodded, "can't say that it wouldn't have happened. What about the rendezvous? Wasn't Arthur there?"  
Dutch shook his head, "we even waited long past the time."  
The quiet was sobering; Arthur, while tough on most occasions, went out of his way to find provisions, specialty items. Most of the gang before Blackwater included him on their outings.  
"For now, we just continue to thrive here," Dutch stood, catching everyone's attention, "keep ourselves out of sight. The chances of Arthur coming back are equally the same as if he were taken by the O'driscoll's.  
"Faith. Faith when we are backed against the wall that Mr. Morgan will return to his family and we will embrace him just the same."  
"Really," Abigail whispered to John, "he won't even look for him."  
John nodded, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, "yeah. Don't like it a bit."  
"So, we're not looking for Arthur?" Charles asked, his voice soft compared to Dutch's.  
The older man shook his head once, "it is imperative that we remain near camp. Our supplies are enough to hold us over until this tide passes us. And we will continue on."  
"We could use food," Pearson managed to say aloud for camp, "a bit of deer and a prairie hen is all we got left."  
Dutch eyed the man, "fine. But in pairs for food. I ain't loosing anymore of this family. Give me time. I will get this solved soon." Dutch waved off Molly in favor of Micah, "Mr. Bell! If you would be so kind..."  
"Plans," John ground out, taking his family towards their tent, "famous lines of Dutch 'I have a plan' van der Linde."  
"You could say that again," Charles sidled alongside the Marston's, "those plans had lead to a lot of misgivings."  
"Fueled by Bell," John bobbed his head towards Micah, "man has no sense in the consequences afterwards."  
Charles frowned, "no, but Dutch sees it differently. Why is a mystery. My loyalties are towards Dutch, not him."  
John nodded, "I feel the same."  
They congregated at the Marston tent, Jack wandering off to play nearby as Abigail sat on one of the crates. The camp was back into its routine and John wasn't amused.   
Abigail reluctantly brought her darning to hand, "funny how this is going. Arthur wouldn't leave us behind."  
And he tried to go back for those in Blackwater, they all did. But the mass number of authorities had overwhelmed the gang. Those left behind were dead.  
John bumped his fist lightly into Charles' chest, "I'm gonna head out to hunt. Join me, yeah?"  
The darker skinned man eyed John, "weren't supposed to leave camp. Even though Pearson did say all we have left is one deer loin and a prairie hen."  
The smile John gave was wolfish, "right then. We should perform our civic duty to the camp and  _track_ some game."  
"Hmm...you're right," Charles beacons John towards the horses, "we should help replenish the stores. Can't choke down more beans when fresh game is nearby."  
They passed by Kieran, who only kept busy as the pair left through the grove of trees. The sun was barely a glimmer on the horizon as they turned onto the dirt path away from camp.  
"Saw them head this way," John provided as he urged Old Boy down the road, "don't know where they set the meeting up, though."  
Charles leaned over his saddle, "gonna be hard to find tracks. The trail is fairly cold."  
"But there's something?"  
"Yeah," Charles uprights himself, "I think I have something; if it's Arthur. Keep up, Marston."  
They spurred the horses forward, the only illumination coming from a hazy sunset, a fog clinging low to the ground. How Charles even managed to see anything, John hadn't a clue.  
They found matted grass as they climbed a ridge, the tracking taking longer with a nearly cold trail. The trail wound over the ridge before Charles pulled on his reigns. John noted the prints split in two separate directions.  
Charles pointed to the further right set. "Two sets of tracks that way. The other one going this way." He spurred his horse to the left.  
The lone prints were of a bigger horse, the prints similar in size to Arthur's steed. They wound past a rock jutting from the ground and slowed. John could see the glint of a long piece of metal deep in the prairie grass. He joined Charles on foot as they scrutinized their findings.   
John reached out, lifting the metal from the ground, "it's Arthur's rifle."  
He turned it slowly in his hands, his frown deepening. The Rolling Block Rifle, especially the one Arthur maintained, was well cared for. But it was left in the dirt, a smattering of rust marring the etched surfaces and engravings.   
"Musta been rushin', they left this behind," John proceeded to clean the weapon with some gun oil.  
Charles hummed, pointing, "there wasn't a struggle."  
The grass was crushed, a darker patch in the dirt. A few unused bullets and a shotgun cartridge littered the area. The remnants of a bottle of whiskey, broken, had attracted ants into the area.  
A familiar shape...Arthur's hat.  
John reached out for it, fingers gripping the supple leather. How out of place it was here.  
He couldn't remember a time when Arthur didn't have that hat nearby.

-*-

 _John was only twelve when brought into the gang, rail thin, hair a mess, the orphanage ready to throw him out. Dutch saw potential, a fire in the scamp._  
_Arthur saw a nuisance, one he was left to babysit._  
_The boy pestered his older 'brother', swiping his hat one day before Arthur cuffed him easily behind the ear. The animosity between them was palpable, the gang left on the edges as they feuded._  
_Two years later, John joined them in a bank robbery. He had his own gun, a cattleman revolver brand new, he was itching to use it._  
_The holdup was easy; one guard, a pretty lady in blue, the bank teller taking Arthur to the vaults._  
_But the lady moved._ _John reacted and shot her in the neck._  
_It wasn't clean; the bullet cut an artery and she began bleeding out._  
_John had killed before. But not an innocent lady._  
_The rest was a blur, before he knew it, they were back in camp. There was celebrating, drink going round. Food made and filling everyone's bellies. Life was back to normal._  
_John sat away from everyone at the edge of camp. He felt...dirty. Awful. The stew cold in its bowl next to him. All he saw was the lady in blue, blood pulsing out of her. The haunted look of the dying._  
_He saw Arthur saunter up to him, his gate relaxed as he lit a cigarette. He eyes John, the boy slouched, a far away look on his face._  
_"Eat up, Johnny Boy," Arthur leaned against the tree John sat under, a cigarette between his lips, "you got yer first robbery. It's somethin' to remember."_  
_John stayed quiet, eyes downcast. She was still there. He could still see her._  
_John sighed, "yeah."_  
_Arthur didn't leave him, just leaned against the tree. The smoke from his cigarette lingering in the stagnant air._  
_Then a weight dropped on his head. A familiar weight; Arthur's hat was there, big on the boys head. John rounded towards Arthur, eyes wide._  
_"Gotta get you a proper hat," the older man said, a ghost of a smirk on his lips._  
_John gripped the brim, "can't I have this 'un?"_  
_Arthur snorted smoke out his nose. "Naw. You need one that fits your tiny head," he punched the boys shoulder lightly._

_-*-_

"Here," Charles called, pulling John away from the memory, "found another set of hoof prints. Looks like they took Arthur's horse too."  
Jaw set, John slings the weapon over his shoulder, the hat tied securely to the saddle. They walked their horses as they followed the barely visible tracks.  
Charles steered his horse off the trail, into a thicket, slowing as his head swiveled towards a sapling, "look," he knelt down, handling the sapling carefully.   
John noted a tuft of fur was caught between the branches. White, curly sheepskin.   
"Looks like it belongs to Colm's jacket," John supplied, "too hot to wear it here. Must've been packed onto his horse."  
"Means he's not gunna be hiding himself in Lemoyne," the mixed Native said, "the trail is this way."  
_Just hang on, Arthur,_ John swung back onto his horse.  _We're comin'._


	7. Talk

_Step...step...step..._  
_..._  
_The bucks ear twitched, watching the sun rising. No hurry. No threat. The glowing light only bifurcated by the impressive rack atop the male deer's head._  
...  
_The light shifts; the buck stepped deeper into a grove of Violet Snowdrops. Squirrels and jackrabbits bounded by, slowing to the magnificent beast._  
_The majestic calmness of such an animal had quieted the chattering and chittering of the smaller wildlife. Almost as if in reverence to a mighty wild king._  
_..._  
_Will you be as such?_

_-*-_

Rain. He heard rain tapping gently against glass. A distant rumble of thunder.   
Something warm and heavy lay on his lower legs. Arthur tried moving the weight, only to hear a protesting whine. It settled even heavier as it adjusted.   
Slowly, for his eyes were still so tired, Arthur opened them. A great mass of fur and the smell of dog assaulted him. It's great head lifting as it looked at him with big brown eyes. The fur on said pooch was deep brown and a patch of black covered it's back like a saddle. The dog, one he hadn't seen before, adjusted again to rest it's massive head on his stomach.   
"Hey boy," he croaked, taking a shallow breath as his ribs protested in agony.  
He wheezed, groaning softly as he brought his good hand up to scratch the dogs perked ears. A happy thump of wagging tail sounding loud in the confines of the building.    
The cottage was honestly comforting; finely crafted lace curtains let in the light of the rainy day. The walls were natural wood, holding roughly cut shelves fully stocked with canned food, plates and cutlery. A sink with pump and extra cabinets filled a corner that hugged one wall and to the next. A table to his left had a stack of books while the mismatched chairs held his satchel and gun holster (which he breathed a sigh of relief). A wardrobe and a dresser was neatly placed against the same wall the headboard was.  
The fireplace graced the wall opposite him on the bed, flames crackled and sputtered while the scent of smoke hung in the air. Almost immediately next to it was a rocking chair, a blanket haphazardly thrown over the arm. A thick rug of black animal fur lay underneath it.  
A long bookshelf covered the final wall, holding an assortment of bound books and trinkets he'd never seen this far west. Arthur did see the handle of a volcanic pistol nestled between some books. He squinted at the bound spines, but couldn't even make out the titles. Let alone the dog unwilling to even move.  
The door at the foot of the bed suddenly swung open, letting in a rush of cool air and rain. A woman in a wide brimmed hat followed. The wind whipped her white skirt and deep red hair in a torrent, fanning the fire as she heaved her weight into the door to close it.  
She blew strands of hair from her face, "whew! That wind is brutal! I can see why you didn't want to go out, Zeus."  
The dog yipped, tail going faster as she brought her hand on top of the dog's head, only to encounter Arthur's skin instead.   
"Oh! Mr. Morgan!" She fumbled her armload of wood onto the floor, hand clutching her chest, "why! Goodness, your awake."  
He cleared his throat, a grating greeted him unpleasantly, "yeah. Sorry."  
She smiled, tossing the hat aside to retrieve her spilled wood, "no need to be sorry, this is progress! It's been a touchy couple of days for you; had me wonderin' if you'd even live through the night or if I'd've been digging your grave."  
He blinked, rubbing his eyes, more awake now that he listened to her. A gentle voice she possessed, a hint of eastern upbringing was a nice change from the twang he heard everywhere.   
And her name escaped him, "I...uh...sorry I'm at a loss at to your name, ma'am."  
"Constance Albright," she supplied, feeding a log into the fire, "granted you were a bit delirious when I found you that you didn't recall my name."  
Her wide brown eyes fell onto the dog currently on Arthur's lap, "and you know better, dog."  
Zeus' tongue flopped out in a smile, nudging Arthur's hand again for more attention. The cool nose brushed against his palm.  
"It's fine," scratch behind the ear, "he's no bother."  
Constance huffed a breath, "sadly you don't know the mutt like I do. He'll steal the bed as soon as you get up."  
He eyed the dog again as it chuffed.  
"Anyhow, enough about the dog, move," she snapped her fingers at Zeus, who jumped off the bed, settling near the fire, "how are you feeling?"  
Her fingers lifted the sheet away from his shoulder and Arthur saw what a sorry state he was. A large wrap of cloth covered most of his upper torso, a motley of multi colored bruises peaking from behind the wrapping. The wrap had stopped the bleeding for the most part, but he couldn't still believe the damage. A glimpse lower he noted his ribs were just as sore as they looked. Purple and yellow bruises littered his right side where Colm smashed his gun into him.  
"Damn," his head fell back to the pillow, eyes latched onto the beam above him, "I'm just peachy."  
She snorted, "sarcasm is my favorite affirmation on pain. You must really be feeling it."  
He made a face.  
She offered a knowing look, "Rhodes residents are even more intolerant, I've answered housecalls for bruised egos more than bruised skin."  
Arthur smiled at that, the lady had a point. So far, the people of Lemoyne had yet to impress him.   
Constance tied her hair back with a long hair pin, "I'll need to change your bandages and to check how bad the infection is."  
Arthur's eyebrows went up, "you're a doctor?"  
She sat next to him, "my father was. I had been his assistant when I was nine." She tugged loose the first layer, "but considering how backwards this state is, I'm probably overqualified."  
He chuckled, wincing when he jostled his injury. She slowed her unwrapping, brows puckering prettily.   
"My mistake for even asking," he watched her, "I'd hate it if you were an undertaker when you found me."  
Constance smiled, "don't know if I should be flattered or insulted, now hold still."  
The cloth stuck as she so very carefully worked it off Arthur's skin. He bit his lip while she released the stuck cloth.  
She scrutinized her work, "what did you use to cauterize the wound?"  
"A file," he hissed, holding his breath while she stretched the skin slightly, "and gunpowder."  
Her prodding paused, "p-pardon?"  
His blue eyes focused on her brown ones, "a file. And some gunpowder."  
He watched the color drain from her face at the fact that he used  _gunpowder._ Bill claimed to have done it on his leg years before joining the gang, claiming it worked but hurt like a bastard. Arthur, unfortunately, had a more dire need to cauterize his injury than Bill and his need to impress the ladies.   
"I wouldn't recommend it," Arthur supplied.  
She blanched further, returning to her task.  
Arthur found himself memorizing her face that was oh so close to his bare chest. He automatically saw himself drawing her in his journal. A heart shaped face, her long hair twisted out of the way save for a few wayward tendrils. Freckles kissed her cheeks and the gentle slope of her nose. A healed line of scar tissue on her right cheek caught his eye, it was about two inches long from below her eye to her jaw.  
"Well, I commend you for thinking on your feet. Funny that you would even do that."  
Arthur shrugged his good shoulder, "the men who had me weren't very concerned about my wellbeing."  
"Clearly," Constance pressed her finger close to the ragged stitches. "Looks like the infection is still there, but it's better than it was. Still gonna be a while before you're fully healed."  
Her touch was akin to fire; warm and inviting, but possibly dangerous if she recognized his face or name. Was she informing the sheriff of his existence here while she was out? He knew his paranoia could topple buildings when the gang ran from the law. It was extremely high back in Horseshoe Overlook when the Pinkerton's saw him and Jack fishing.  
However, just feeling how she held herself around him, Arthur didn't think she'd do anything like that. He could have woken up in a cell in Rhodes or Saint Denis, waiting the hangman's noose. She was calm, in control of her surroundings that the outlaw relaxed further into the sheets.  
He hadn't done that since Eliza, even Mary didn't have that effect on him. How strange all this was.  
Still, as Constance applied a new bandage and rewrapped Arthur up, he only felt a twinge of heartache. How different things could have been had he stayed with Eliza, hell, if he'd been better for Mary.  
For one, Eliza and Isaac probably would still be alive, he'd be some sort of rancher, probably. Take responsibility for the family he helped to create. Not like his own father. The man was one he didn't aspire to be.  
The other with Mary, he wasn't sure. She spoke of the lavish nature of Saint Denis and how he could integrate into the society there. How she'd be the one to work out his gruffness. He did give her a ring, with a chip of diamond he had to work extra hard to afford. But he always felt out of place; too much civilization, rains constant in the bayou it was built in. Even the people there made him uncomfortable, a wildness to them of a city life. Different predators, different prey.  
For probably the second time in his life, Arthur was lost. The overwhelming pull of doubt latched its claws into him again. It nawed on him like a dog with a bone.  
He hadn't realized how upset he was until Constance cupped his cheek. Those honey brown eyes searching his for the source of discomfort.  
"Am I hurting you?" She fretted her lip.  
Clenching his jaw briefly, Arthur shook his head. A wayward tear escaped the corner of his eye; a vulnerable sign he would chide himself over in the late hours.   
" 'm alright," he croaked. "Jus' tired."  
She fret her lip a little longer before giving him a small smile, "I understand. You should eat something before you rest though."  
She gracefully stood, hand still lingering on his bare bicep. The heat penetrated deep into his skin. Did he still have the fever, or was this something completely different? That touch was a comfort he hadn't felt for a long time.   
_You're getting soft, Arthur,_ he thought.  _You're worse than those dime novels._  
Constance miraculously produced a piece of bread and cheese on a chipped plate before him. She set it atop the table before going to his side again.   
"You're gonna have to help me sit you up. It was tough getting you in here."  
With a little bit of fussing and adjusting of pillows, Arthur sat against the headboard, the blanket tucked securely about his waist. It was so domestic that he wasn't self conscious of his state of dress. His long-johns were completely cut apart due to his emergency surgery, only leaving the bottom portion tied snugly above his waist.   
Constance sat in a chair when he mentioned it, "I'll have to get you some from town. Maybe later this afternoon."  
Arthur bit a portion of cheese, the taste heavenly, "I've got money in the satchel."  
Zeus barked suddenly, jumping towards the door. The growling from the dog had Arthur swivel his head towards the lace curtains. Through the sheer fabric, seven figures on horseback were drawing near. The rain had obscured their forms on the glass that he was left with impressions of who they were.  
But he couldn't mistake one thing.  
The O'driscoll green on all of them.  



	8. Knives

Lone Mule Stead was a flurry of angry activity. O'driscoll's swarmed the cabin on foot and horseback, their body language on edge as they seemed to be roaming without much fanfare. One was digging a grave deeper in the tree line while others gone about their business.   
Higher up a ridge to the northeast, John and Charles had made camp. They had tied their horses closer to the river while they scouted behind a boulder.   
John watched through the Rolling Block scope, "I've got a feeling they're mad."  
"Ya think?" Charles lowered his binoculars, "not many people are capable of doing that."  
"Kinda tells us somethin'," John watched a moment longer, "hate to say it, but I don't think Arthur's there."  
Charles frowns, bouncing on the balls of his feet, "I agree. Arthur got away."  
It was John's turn to frown, "back to square one."  
"Not necessarily."  
A boom of distant thunder sounded as the pair continued to observe. The O'driscoll's below scurried faster, gathering up their belongings. The man digging the grave tossed the shovel he carried back towards the shed by the building. He then swung onto his horse, spurring his mount down a deeper trail towards Strawberry.   
"Come on," Charles crouched down and ran towards the abandoned land.   
John scurried behind. His heart racing as the land slopes a gradual grade. The loose slag and shale tumbled behind them, the rain muffling their movements. Not that it would have mattered; no O'driscoll remained in residence.   
They still remained cautious nearing the homestead. Their guns held loosely in hand, eyes darting at every twitch in the foliage, every tiny sound made.   
"Hey, check this out," Charles waved his hand at John.   
The ground was splattered with red gore and not even two feet away a thin sheath of a throwing knife lie hidden in the grass.   
"That's Arthur's," John wrapped the metal in a kerchief, he knew it was one of Arthur's poisoned ones, "from what I know of the O'driscoll's, they don't use these."  
Charles snorted, "Inbred white men," he eyed John, "no offense."  
"None taken," John bobbled his head further along.  
With them closer to the parcel of land, they could make out more details. The crushed grass, a spent shell casing. A animal skull discarded while the remains were scattered about a cooled off campfire.  
More blood littered the ground closer to the cabin as well as another of Arthur's knives. Another glimmer of metal, a dropped platinum wedding ring.   
John rounded the side of the building, seeing the doors leading to a cellar swung open. More blood dotted the steps inward. He cautiously followed the crimson droplets, eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom inside.  
Not that there was much in there; a root cellar that had seen better days. Three walls of roughly stacked stone, a scuffed table and chair. A candle flickered in its last minutes of light, but it shown much to John's eyes.   
A familiar discarded shirt, a pair of blue denim jeans.   
"Charles!" He shouted, crouching down to pick them up.  
Charles' head peaked from the entrance, taking in the clothes. He frowned, stepping into the cellar.  
"He was kept here," he points to the remains of a rope tied to the ceiling, the disturbed dirt beneath it, "tied there. Damn. Musta been lifted off the ground."  
"Good news, though," the young man spoke with optimism, "only just have to find him."  
"Rain is our problem now," Charles shrugged, "but it also is a problem for them if they're tracking him too."  
They left the cabin, the rain soaking them quickly. Another dead end into finding their lost gang member, a long shot from the beginning.   
"We will find him," John spoke, whistling for their horses.  
The rain sleeted, washing away the evidence that anyone was here.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been longer than I anticipated for this little update. A short filler chapter, if you will. ;)


	9. The Doctor is In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, thank you to everyone who is enjoying this little story of mine so far!

_CRACK!!!!_  
The rain pelted the group of outlaws and their horses, soaking them to the bone. It was sheeting since leaving the makeshift camp west of the river. They didn't bother going into Valentine, the closest town nearby for a doctor as they were easily wanted.  
Colm O'driscoll swung out his arm, "this is it. Aaron! Get Erik down! Geoff too! I want this done. Jimmy," he looked towards his second, a large brute to his left, "give that door a knock. See iffin' that bitch is in."  
He complied as he dropped from his horse and knocked on the door. They heard a dog barking as a voice shushed the animal. Soon after, it was opened a fraction as Constance peaked out.  
"Ma'am," Colm called over the rain, "we're in need of your assistance."  
"Then go to a doctor," the woman watched them, a bit distracted as she held the door.   
"Yous a doctor," Colm said, "heard bout ya from people in Emerald Ranch and Valentine way."  
She looks them over, "I don't take strangers in my home."  
Colm sneered as he leaned in further on his horse, "too bad, my dear," he gave a curt nod at Jimmy who pushed the door open.  
She tried throwing her own weight against the wood, yet it was like fighting a rockslide. Constance backed away as the brute manhandled her away from the door. The man sneered crookedly, holding it open.   
The dog continues to bark from near the window opposite the door, its paws seemingly unwillingly leave the black hide rug. Two of the gang quickly dragged an unconscious man inside while a third was slung over another's shoulder. The unconscious man groaned between the pair.   
Constance huffs, "get out."  
The brute backhands her, his fingers catching her cheek. Constance yelped, cupping her smarting cheek. The dog growled, jumping towards Jimmy before settling back his spot.  
"Jimmy, Jimmy," Colm chides as he strolls in and shook water off his hat. "Not the good doctor. If ya ain't gonna ask nicely," he turned to the woman, "Ignore my man's actions. But I'll ask the same question. My response mightn't be as nice."  
She considers, he sees defiance before she points, "the bed, obviously."  
His eyes rove towards an empty single bed.  
"Do it," Colm commanded.  
He strode further inside, taking in the sight of the cottage. Colm had heard about the woman doctor from a fellow in Valentine, since his own surgeon was unfortunately killed by Arthur Morgan.   
_Arthur Morgan,_ he nearly spat, teeth grinding.  
They kidnapped, shot, beat up and hung by the ankles Dutch's prized enforcer and he  _still_ escaped. Killing their own doctor while checking on him. It still grated Colm's skin, having his opportunity dragged from beneath his feet.  
Colm's men finished setting the unconscious man on the empty bed, the other on the bare floor. He rounded to the woman, using his height to intimidate.   
"Gents, this lady will be fixin' you up," he leaned closer to Constance, "I've heard you were good for a woman. Mind showing us by fixin' my men?"

-*-

Arthur Morgan watched the exchange from below the floorboards, breaths quiet in the enclosed space.  
He didn't surprise much, granted Arthur had seen quite a bit as an outlaw. He never suspected a hidden room beneath the cottage of this unsuspecting woman. She had hefted him up to walking and to the door beneath the black fur rug.  
"No other place to hide, Mr. Morgan," she said moments before shutting it.  
A few more sounds of shuffling came from above. The clicking of Zeus' nails on the floor as Constance commanded the dog to stay.  
Much to Arthur's displeasure, the hidden root cellar of Miss Albright's cottage reminded him too closely to his imprisonment just days ago. It held the same scent, same dampness. His ribs ached with his sudden movement and his injured shoulder burned with discomfort. The hidden door, when closing, had jostled him enough that he lost his balance, ramming ungracefully into the lone shelving attached to the stone wall. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting, nearly blacking out in his agony.   
Then the warm, sticky trickle emanating from the wound confirmed that he popped the stitching. He pressed the compress firmer on the wound; it hammered in time with his heartbeat.   
Zeus growled then, letting him hear the conversation above.   
_"I've heard you were good for a woman. Mind showing us by fixin' my men?"_  
Colm. Colm was actually here.  
Arthur creeped closer to the space shining between the floorboards. Firelight danced across the walls as shadows flitted back and forth. The creak and strain of multiple persons on the floor above him confirmed he was best to stay hidden. He craned his neck enough to spot the profile of the O'driscoll gang leader.  
Colm leered, a curious look on his face towards the owner of the cottage. Arthur spotted Constance through another crack, eyes latched firmly onto her newest, unwanted guest.  
She straightened her back, fingers tentatively pressed against her cheek.  
_"I'm no doctor, Mr..."_  
Colm invaded her space,  _"O'driscoll."_  
She took a step back, only to collide with Jimmy.  
_"Fix my men, missy. 'S all we need."_

-*-

There were a handful of times Constance felt small and insignificant in the presence of a man. She in turn used those confrontations as a means to build herself a barrier against that tide. She became stronger because of it.  
Colm O'driscoll was a coward in her opinion; using his men like a shield, his presence an ooze of his self centered pomposity.  
These kinds of men she encountered too often in Rhodes and she loathed every minute of it. They believed because of her being a woman, she was to be used as she was; lower class.   
Constance Albright stood ramrod straight, glaring at the man ahead of her, ignoring the one who struck her earlier.   
She was her own woman, damnit.  
So, while she was significantly shorter than them, she still demanded their attention.   
"You seem to think I can when one of them is practically dying on my cot," she flung her arm towards the dying man. "I can't fix a bullet to the stomach, he's gonna bleed out! Bringing him here just shortened his chance at living for a few more hours!"  
"Really," Colm calmly said, "that makes things a little easier."  
Quick as lightning, Colm drew his sidearm and fired.


	10. Quid Pro Quo

The gunshot rang inside the tiny cottage; the man on the cot lay still, his blood emptying onto the floorboards in a gruesome river. He didn't even know he was to die and maybe that was a blessing.   
Arthur took a tentative step back, eyes latched on Constance through the floorboards. Zeus had rekindled his barking just above him.  
Shock played on her face before she rounded on the leader, "what is WRONG WITH YOU?!?!"  
Colm merely shrugged and returned his gun to its holster, "you said he wasn't gonna make it. Took care of it myself."  
"You don't KILL someone in my house!" She spat at him, poking him squarely in the chest.  
Colm only caught her wrist and squeezed. Her breath caught as she tried to break free from that grip. His weaselly face cracked a yellow grin.  
Colm took a half step closer, the light casting his face in shadow. "I ain't against killin' you. Killed plenty of women. Children when they get...feisty."  
The look as he eyed her had Arthur seeing red, "fix my man an' I won't slit yer throat." He shoved Constance onto the floor, her hair falling free from the hair pin.  
She clutched her wrist carefully, her bright eyes held not tears, but anger. Those eyes flicked towards the crack between the boards, searching.  
Those honey orbs darted to the barely seen crack, the man beneath the floor. Arthur merely shook his head slowly, deliberately.   
_Do as he says_ , he mouthed slowly for her.  
He hoped she would follow his direction; heros got themselves killed for less. But he saw the barely given nod as she stood.   
He leaned against the stone as his shoulder began its next torment. The warm dribble of blood had Arthur more focused on the activity above. He slumped, sitting on the step, shivering.  
_Don't do something stupid._

_-*-_

Her wrist ached, hands trembling as she set the bone on the thug. He cried out in pain when she repositioned the broken femur in place. Just another typical day for her.  
The lingering gunsmoke and the scent of unwashed men wasn't helping her. They practically overtook her cottage with their sheer size. She wouldn't have expected the O'driscoll gang this deep in Lemoyne. Why when the Lemoyne Raiders had caused plenty of terror?   
Constance tied the end of the wrap and shoved herself away from the man. Two of his comrades helped him to his feet, cussing and sharp words lashing out as they hobbled out the door. She kept her eyes downcast, their boots only in her vision.   
Colm stalked in front of her, "I thank you, ma'am." He reached a gloved hand to touch her hair.  
Constance pushed herself away from him, looks murderous.   
Colm chuckled, "I like that. Payment is taking the body out."  
He shifts, gaze latching onto one of the chairs tucked into the table. Constance felt her heart beat faster.  
Mr. Morgan's gunbelt and satchel.   
"Quite some firepower ya got there," Colm nods at the revolver in the holster, "knew a man with the same gun."  
Constance walks up to the table, hand on the worn leather. "W-who doesn't have a gun like that? Everyone around Lemoyne totes them about."  
"An' that satchel? Fine craftsmanship if yer lookin' to sell."  
"I ain't sellin'," she tucks her hand inside and pulls out what she thinks is a thick billfold. Instead she has a brown journal in hand.  
Colm nods, seemingly unconvinced. "Ya ain't seen no ones else, have ya, missy?"  
She glared, opening the journal, "even if I had, it's not my place to ask any further."  
Her eyes wandered over beautifully penciled sketches, details of a rendered pinebald buck gracing both pages.  
Colm grabbed her arm, pulling her from the table and tugged her towards the door, "I ain't askin' again!"  
"Your the only ones that have been here in three days!" The journal dropped beside Zeus who nipped towards Colm. Constance worked up some tears, frustrated and scared for everyone inside the cottage. "I-I had a woman in because she was in labor and a man who broke his arm. No one else! Please, I'm just trying to get by."  
The older man tossed her against the bookshelf, "better not be lyin'."  
"Please," she played the distressed woman, holding her arms over her head, "I helped you. Please..please leave me be..."  
He spat out the door, straightened his hat, "alright. Be seein' ya, ma'am."  
Constance cowered, back against the bookshelf as Colm exited. Her heart was pounding; disgust flooding her core. She only began to relax when the hoofbeats faded into the sound of rain.  
The faint nudge of a cold nose to her arm brought her to dig her fingers into Zeus' thick fur. Constance hadn't realized she had sunk to the floor.  
She stood on shaking legs, her gaze latching onto the discarded journal. It was flipped over, the cover opened to the floor. She picked it up, seeing fairly elegant writing on the page:

_As for Mary, I hope I will not make a god awful fool of myself once more, but somehow I imagine I shall_

_A ♡ M_

Zeus wagged his tail slowly as she took a step, heading towards the hidden root cellar, the rug thrown as she lifted the handle. The light penetrates the dark as Arthur, bare chested and bleeding looked upwards. His piercing blue eyes looked concerned as she stares him down.  
The anger in her was visible on her face, "mind informing me on what this is about?"  
Arthur clamped his mouth shut, eyes cast away from her. He saw the fear that lingered behind the anger, the tremble in her lip.  
"It's not your concern. Not your fight," he managed.  
"You asked for a way out, Mr. Morgan. I provide you with access to my root cellar. I help a gang member and watch one die while being shot in my home, no less. I think it's completely in my right to know who you are."  
There was that fire; it burned deep inside her. A fire he didn't see in Mary when she stayed those couple of weeks with the gang. A fire he could relate to.  
Still, he slumped against the wall, "shoar," he easily said.  
Constance watched him, eyes blazing before she heaved in a tired sigh, hand outstretched for him, "come on. You popped your stitches."  
He accepted her hand as she tugged, strong for her size. She had him sit in the rocking chair as she snagged another chair from the table. Constance gave him the wedge of cheese from earlier as she fetched a needle.   
Arthur automatically ate, the cheese a salty bite his stomach took easily. He could only watch her, waiting for her to either begin the suturing or interrogate him.  
"Might as well talk," she provides. It's cold, distant from her bedside manner.   
"Shoar," he dropped his head back, "I'm...sigh...I ain't a good man, Miss Albright."  
"Constance," she corrects, dropping the needle in a bowl with a fingers worth of moonshine, "I think we're past the formalities."  
Arthur gives a short chuckle, " 'kay, Miss Albright- sorry. Constance."  
It was her turn to smile, "must be a habit, Arthur."  
How his name rolls off her tongue eases him, the tension ebbing away as he tries to relax in the rocking chair. She wasn't what he knew, a different story so far from his own.   
He tried again, "well...I said I ain't a good man."  
Her eyes darts to his then back to her work.  _Obviously_ , the look said. He didn't think he'd indulge something so part of his life to a stranger. She didn't deserve his interruption into her life; he wished he didn't have her find him.  
"Probably better off if ya ain't have found me," he looked out the window, "wouldn't be imposin' on you."  
"Don't talk like that," she said, readying to thread her needle, as he focused on her, "I found you, I patched you up and I'm patching you up again. Just...sigh, give me some sort of background on you."  
"It's dangerous if you know me."  
"So?" She snagged a tiny knife, cutting the frayed string from his wound and discarding the pieces. He would be enduring this fully awake and coherent this time around.   
He frowned, "ya hadn't forgotten the men that were here not even ten minutes ago?"  
Her look was fierce, "this is Lemoyne Raider country. They're no different from them."  
Arthur purses his lips, flexing his fingers on the arms of the rocker. She removed the compress and sopped the remaining blood away from his skin.  
"Must be hard to avoid them," he blinks slowly and focuses on breathing evenly.   
She hums as she pokes the needle in, "sometimes. Mostly they take a so called 'toll' just to pass them by."  
Arthur knew of that toll when on a supply run with Mrs. Adler. Those bastards were armed to the teeth.   
"Tha' all you dealt with?"  
Her eyes dart to his and back, "I've been lucky. Not everyone can attest to that. Seen many carts on the side of the road with vultures circling.  
"But I'm not going to answer more questions until you give me some," Constance waits.   
He chews the inside of his cheek, "alright."  
"Who are you? Really?"  
"Arthur Morgan."  
She huffs, agitated, "besides your name. You clearly knew the man, Colm O'driscoll."  
"Yes," he watches the needle, felt it slide in the ragged skin, "his gang ain't fond of the one I'm in."  
She barely pauses before sinking the sharp metal in again.  
"Even you must have heard of the van der Linde Gang this far south."  
"Course I heard of your  _gang_ ," poke, tug, "the infamous _Sons of Dutch. Tsk._ Nothing but gang wars and feuds."  
Arthur couldn't argue about that, "well, we wasn't looking for one. Just wanted to head west and away from civilization, not get caught up in it."  
"Pretty nasty business you brought on yourselves from Blackwater then. Could have fled easily."  
Easily. Why hadn't they turned their caravan to the west? Simply put, they didn't plan accordingly. The Blackwater job was so slapdash, even sloppy to Dutch's standards. Too many people killed, injured or left behind. Just gaining Sean back had lifted the spirits of so many, hell even Arthur had given himself too many drinks on that occasion.   
Another prick of the needle as Constance mulled the information over. A crease formed between her eyebrows.   
"Is that it? Just a thug named Arthur Morgan of the van der Linde gang?" She stretched, "surely there's more to you than that. You definitely know more about me than you've disclosed."  
He could only stare; the hell was it with this woman?  
"Like what?"  
Constance scoffed, "I know you're some sort of artist with that journal of yours."  
"You read my journal?" He growled, not liking his anger.  
"Hardly," she opened it to the page she picked up from the ground earlier.   
"You say you're a bad man-" her fingers pointed to the _A ♡ M_ on the opened page, "-but I don't believe it."  
Arthur Morgan blinked at his own hand written letters as Constance finished her stitching and stepped outside. 


	11. Findings and the Possibility of Knowledge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back from my little siesta, hiadus, writer's block thing.

The next morning, after she made sure Mr. Morgan was resting, Constance made a trip into Rhodes.  
Being her family had no ties to the Greys or the Braithwates, she had no worries of harassment from them while going into town. That was the only blessing as the ones outside their blood feud had taken great notice in her ever since. Her deep red hair and slightly tanned skin wasn't a typical Lemoyne trait. It still made the locals notice her more than she wished.  
Still, Rhodes and Lemoyne state itself was so different from the big city. Saint Denis didn't compare to Chicago, where she was born and lived for eight years. Not that she would have remembered much of Chicago, except for the noise and soot. It was where her mother resides, resting among the dead.  
The bell announced her entrance into the general store as the owner leaned on the countertop. He brushed his thick moustache as Constance browsed his wares.  
"Mornin', Miz Albright," he greeted, "here for your order?"  
She greeted him back with a smile, "why yes. Thank you." Her gaze fell onto some folded up men's clothes, "I've also been sent to pick up some clothes for one of our guests. He was robbed while traveling and had asked for something to replace them."  
The shopkeeper nodded sagely, "an unfortunate thing to happen. I imagine it was those Lemoyne Raiders?"  
She didn't confirm his suspicions, "all I know is he's recovering and I'm on duty to buy."  
"Yes, ma'am."  
She frowned at the selection before her, already unsure what size Mr. Morgan was. He was a large man, but more barrel chested than overweight. All muscle, firm under her fingers; wiry golden hairs on his chest and a slim torso toned with-  
Constance shook her head, the burn of embarrassment on her cheeks. Where did _that_ come from? Mr. Morgan was a patient of hers, one that literally fell into her care! She shouldn't be fawning over him like those silly novels she read on a daily basis. Practically ate through them while waiting for another hapless person to seek her assistance.   
_Oh you silly, foolish girl,_ she fanned her face as she rifled through the shirts before her,  _don't get caught up in a man like that. You don't know his real intentions._  
_Dosen't hurt to imagine,_ the voice in her head reasoned,  _but he already seems to have his heart set on a Mary._  
Constance sighed, hating how her mind gone about. Too much goings in that head, her mother had mentioned that a few times before her passing, that men would be intimidated. Men, whom Aunt Maisy had mentioned and strut Constance in front of in attempts to marry her off, hadn't the chops to keep up with her. Constance wouldn't call herself any sort of genius, but she wasn't fooling anyone by acting like a typical lady. She read books from her father's collection, sat in lectures back in Saint Denis (saying she was taking notes for her 'husband' whom was away, much to their chuckling), prodded for information from colleagues stationed in Canada and New York that had taken her seriously.  
Constance Albright craved knowledge, much like a bird to fly or a fish to swim. The medical field offered plenty of that knowledge as breakthroughs in medicine were being developed more frequently.   
Yet with her as a woman, she had to adapt to her surroundings in the deep south. Had to hide herself as a ward to her aunt's house, waiting to be practically sold in marriage.   
Her mood soured even more at the intrusive prospect awaiting her near future. Her aunt already had another 'showing' of her planned for the end of the month. Constance wished she would cease this practice.   
She quickly selected a blue and white striped shirt along with a pair of town pants in black, keeping that particular elephant in the room far back.  
_He probably would enjoy that color scheme_ , she thought, selecting some socks as well.  
The boots were another mystery as she completely forgot to even discern the size. Granted, the tack on his horse might carry a pair that she might have missed in her earlier perusal.   
The bell rang again, "morning, sir."  
A pair of footfalls trekked heavily on the wooden boards. The faint clinking of spurs a gentle harmony in conjunction with the steps.   
"Mornin'," the voice was deep and rough, a long time smoker by the sound of it, "might I ask you a question?"  
"Sure."  
"Seen a feller round here? Tall, sandy brown hair, might have been ridin' a brown Shire? Goes by Arthur?"  
Constance's leg bumped against one of the counters, knocking over a tin of biscuits. It fell noisily to the floor.   
The shopkeeper and the stranger looked towards her, "everything okay, Mizz Albright?"  
Oh, how guilty she seemed when looking up both the men.  
The newcomer she hadn't seen before, but Constance knew a thug when she saw one. Head tipped low, eyeing her with interest. The deep scarring on his face of a hasty suture job that left two nearly parallel lines on his stubbly cheek.  
"I'm fine," she fluttered her hand before her, "just misjudged my footing."  
Constance gathered her extra purchases and set them on the countertop. The stranger took a half step back to accommodate.  
_Arthur is a common name, no need to get flustered._    
"Maybe you'd seen him?" The stranger asked, his hand on the counter. "Tall guy, ridin' a chestnut Shire? Not many ridin' that kinda horse."  
Constance counted her money slowly, "dunno. I'm not in town much."  
_That's right,_   _play dumb._  
"Oh," the man seemed to deflate slightly, adjusting his hat, "well, thought I'd ask."  
Pressing her lips together, she retrieved the newly wrapped parcels, bowing her head to hide her face from the man and out the door. The man turned his attention back to the shopkeeper.  
"Well, if you see him..."


End file.
